


Anyway the wind blows

by Outsider_Lookin_In



Category: Moominvalley (Cartoon 2019), Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson, 楽しいムーミン一家 | Moomin (Anime 1990)
Genre: F/M, Falling In Love, Feelings, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 02:15:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28610436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Outsider_Lookin_In/pseuds/Outsider_Lookin_In
Summary: Sometimes we make mistakes in life. We follow our feet when we should follow our hearts. The wind is a fickle mistress after all.
Relationships: Joxaren | The Joxter/Mymlan | The Mymble
Comments: 3
Kudos: 13





	Anyway the wind blows

**Author's Note:**

  * For [boorishbint](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boorishbint/gifts).



> Recommended listening while reading:  
> Travelling on - The Kongos  
> Nostalgia - wallander soundtrack  
> Anyway the wind blows - Hadestown

The streets gleamed with fresh rain, marble slabs slick and shining, reflecting back the warm glow that spilled from cafes and tavernas. Joxter pulled his collar up and tucked himself a little tighter into the corner of pillar and wall.  
The arcade was quiet yet, but it would get busier as young couples escaped the hot press of the bars for one of their own making. Filling his pipe Joxter savoured his moment of peace.

It hadn’t always been so. Once he would have scoffed to see a ragged old cat puffing a lonesome pipe while there was music and laughter inside. Warmth and people and unguarded pockets. But that was before.

The party had been so divine.

The river god really had gone all out for his birthday and Joxter had been so young. The dancing lights of the carousel had made him giddy, leaping onto a wooden horse as though it was his own battle charger and hollering at Moomintroll and Muddler to get those sticks out of their arses and get up there with him.

Moomintroll, predictably, had chosen the carriage. Joxter rolled his eyes as his friend settled in, admiring the intricate wooden scrollwork and no doubt imagining himself some kind of king or lord. Muddler, at least, had some imagination and had chosen the zebra, clinging to its neck in fright as the ride started up but offering Joxter a tremulous smile after a few turns. Joxter, meanwhile, could barely keep his seat. The lights flashed above him, the music filled his ears, and he felt so full with it that he felt if only he could focus a little he might rise from the saddle and take to the skies.

And that was when he saw her.

Flame red hair, tied up in intricate knots and curls, with a few strands falling around her face, flying gaily free. She moved through the crowd like a galley in full sail, beautiful and broad, forcing the little ships away from her magnificence to bob aimlessly in her wake.

Joxter had felt want before. He didn’t, perhaps, want for treasure or buttons or other such mundane objects, but he had certainly felt the pull of a ‘restricted entry’ sign, or a well made bed, but those wants paled in comparison to this. His body turned like a needle to the North, as powerless against it as the compass is to deny the pull of the earth.  
The ride was slowing, people were getting off. Moomintroll tugged at his trouser leg, something about letting others use the ride as well, but Joxter ignored him. Instead he shimmied up the pole to get a better view.

She was moving this way, her face glowing with laughter as the crowd parted and a multitude of children came stumbling and tumbling and rolling forth. Like the crest of a wave she pushed them forwards and their screams of delight as they spotted the ride brought her out in fresh peals of laughter. Her voice, when it came, was deep and booming and spoke of cinnamon and cocoa and warm nights under the moon.

Joxter gripped the pole, curling around it like a spider monkey, holding on with paws and tail and determination even as every hair on his body stood on end. He could drown in a voice like that.

“Yes, my dears, my darlings. Up you go. Go on. Up onto the horses and carriages. Do hold onto each other now. Oh yes, what a fine sight you all make. Oh do let mother up. A horse! A horse for mother!”

She stopped by the white charge and looked up, hands on her hips and a glint in her eye as she took in the Joxter, clinging to the pole.

“Well, well,” she boomed joyfully. “What have we here? Tell me sir, are you ape or man? Or perhaps a cat, stuck up his tree?”

With a grace born of desperation Joxter leapt from the pole, sweeping his hat from his head and landing at her feet in a bow.

“Madam, I am a Joxter,” he said, voice burred low as he risked a glance up at her through his fringe. She was smiling down at him with a sweet look, like dripping honey. Standing swiftly he held out a hand. “Please, allow me?” he offered.

Beaming, she took his hand and allowed him to imagine he was helping her up. Then, with a speed belying her size she caught him around the waist, lifting him easily in front of her just as the music started up and the whole world began to spin.

“What a fine and gallant Joxter you are,” she whispered in his ear. “What is a lady to do?”

A laugh startled him from his thoughts. It was high and piercing, the young woman in question spinning delightedly around her fellow as they danced across the square. They stopped by the fountain, wrapped in each others arms as they looked up at the tumbling water in wonder, before turning inward to each other with quiet murmurs of love. It should have been beautiful.

The Joxter turned away.

The road was always cold these days. Even under the sun, on the far Southern shores, Joxter would feel a chill at his back where a warm body once lay. His hat, his beautiful red hat, was long gone. Now he wore a blue one. It suited him just as well. Better even, now.

There had been days. Weeks. Months of warm summer sunshine. Laughter all around him as he tumbled in the garden with the children. High and raucous and delighted.  
Laughter again at night as he’d tumbled in a different sort of garden, low and sultry and pleased.

He’d made a nest in those curls, built walls of those warm arms and a roof of kisses and murmured praise, little snippets of song and sonnet to keep out the drafts.

But the wind is subtle. It finds its way in through the smallest cracks and one night it had slipped through his fortress, whispering promises and threats in equal measure.  
The road wept for him, it said, calling his name in the darkest hour. The moon had turned her sad face away. The world was forgetting him as he had forgotten it, content to lay in his bower instead, dreaming the days away.

And so he had broken his walls, leaving a lock of his hair on the pillow and taking a lick of flames in return. He’d stood by the window, breathing in until he thought his lungs might explode, trying to capture the scent of their room and keep it, watching as Mymble turned in her sleep, arms pulling in to her chest, destroying the house he had built.

Then, with a flick of his tail, he was away, boots silent on the garden path as his clever fingers wove her hair into a braid and stowed it away in his breast pocket, a brand against his heart.

He had been young then. So young. The sun wheeled overhead and the seasons passed like images on a zoetrope, flickering and unreal. He sought out old haunts, lost himself in crowds and empty vistas alike, but always he felt the chill at his back where once there had been a beating heart.

He began to shy from the crowds, their heat oppressive rather than comforting. In the wilderness he could at least blame the chill on the wind. He could imagine he was still himself, whole and unchanged.

But he lingered at gardens.

His breath caught at the screams of children at play.

He shied from red things.

It started small, an apple thrown into a hedge. Not for the colour, he told himself, no. It was bitter, that was all. He watched the sweet apple sail through the air and felt a twist in his gut not unlike hunger. Then a rose he had stopped to smell turned cloying and sickly in his throat. He ignored it as best he could, but one day as he was walking through a town he caught his reflection in the glass window of a shop and the twist was so sharp he gasped in pain.

He sold his hat to a ragman, his heart a mixture of bitterness and relief as he watched the old man paw at it before digging out a few coins in exchange. The blue hat was better. It was warmer, more waterproof. A sensible decision Moomintroll would say. The thought curdled Joxters gut.

The boy was beautiful.

Joxter froze for a second before darting behind a stall to clutch his chest, gripping his breast pocket tight. Fearful of being caught, but even more so of losing sight of the lad, he peeked around the corner.

He was short, though not as short as he could have been. His face was round and soft with youth but his sharp nose and teeth were unmistakably Joxters. He had on a green hat, felted wool, but there were a few curls poking out from under the brim, flame red and wild. His clothes were well-worn and fraying, but Joxter could see a few neatly mended patches and his boots were strong. Clearly he was looked after, or at least could look after himself perfectly well. He was standing at a stall holding up a shell on a string and admiring the shimmering colours. The stall holder was watching him kindly, exchanging a few words, clearly hoping for a sale.

Joxter watched as the boy laughed, his ears straining to catch the noise but it was washed away by the chatter of the market and he nearly keened with frustration.  
The boy was putting the necklace back now with a rueful shake of his head. The stallkeeper shrugged her shoulders, waving him on his way, and then he was gone, slipping into the crowd and vanishing from sight.

“How much for the necklace?”

The stallkeeper looked up, a delicate frown on her face as she took in the Joxters distinctly less well-kept appearance.

“Don’t know that you should be spending your coin on silly trinkets, sir,” she said carefully. “I have some good needles and thread? Or maybe some fabric scraps, if you’ve your own?” Joxter shook his head.

“The necklace. Please.”

“Suit yourself. It’s two crowns.”

Joxter winced, but pulled out his purse. It was light. Ordinarily he would just wait for the woman to turn her back and pocket the damn thing, but it felt important to do this right. He carefully counted out the coins. The woman frowned at him as he handed them over, eyes roving over Joxters face. She nodded to herself. Splitting the pile she handed a few back with a small smile.

“He wanted it for his friend, but he has no money at all, he says. Said he'd make camp down on the beach, see if he couldn't find his own shells."

Joxter nodded in thanks, pocketing the change and taking the necklace, putting it around his own neck for safekeeping. As he turned towards the beach he felt a warm breeze on his back, with just a hint of cinnamon.


End file.
